


Ease the Pressure in my Soul

by whiskygalore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, mild d's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskygalore/pseuds/whiskygalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Spn kink meme prompt requesting Bobby taking care of a lonely Dean while Sam is at Stanford and his Dad’s hunting on his own. There’s a bit of d’s, a bit of hurt Dean and a little bit of schmoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ease the Pressure in my Soul

Dean's fingers squeeze the steering wheel tight enough to leave imprints. The motor is still running, Metallica thrashing ear-splittingly loud in the confines of the impala and he just can't persuade his fingers to release their death grip on the worn leather. He knows he just has to let go, just has to get out of the car, just has to take the few steps to Bobby's door, just has to say the words, just has these simple things to do to earn a bit of relief from the pressure pounding through his body. The pressure that's been steadily building, gaining deafening suffocating momentum all month.  A month in which his dad has refused to answer any of his calls, proving exactly how alike he and Sam actually are. Sucking a deep lungful of air in through his nose, Dean tries to control his breathing and calm himself down. Get a grip, get a fucking grip you worthless chickenshit! He’s not sure whether the voice yelling in his head belongs to him or his dad. Finger by finger he slowly pries himself free from the steering wheel and with a tremor in his hand that shouldn't belong to a twenty three year old he turns off the motor. The sudden silence in the car is unsettling rather than calming and it's that, that gives Dean the final push to open his door and take the last unsteady steps of his journey. 

Bobby opens the door before Dean can even knock, of course he does, he's probably been watching Dean's dumb battle with himself ever since the impala growled to a standstill in front of his house. Forcing himself to meet Bobby's astute gaze, he swallows the lump lodged in his throat, licks his stinging dry lips and stutters, "I...I...need you Bobby, please."

 

Bobby takes a good look at the young man shaking on his porch. For someone who spends so much time outdoors his face is a sickly shade, paler than white. He’s seen two hundred year old vampires with healthier complexions - after their heads have met with his machete. There are such dark shadows underneath his eyes that at first glance he's convinced Dean has two black eyes but no, it’s lack of sleep that’s caused the damage not a fist. The mottled purple bruise spreading over his cheekbone and the crusty remnants of a scab marring the boy's bottom lip along with his scabbed and swollen knuckles are however, obviously the results of a brawl. The boy's shoulders are hunched forward and he is near as dammit cowering inside his father's battered leather jacket. The urge to haul Dean straight into a hug is overwhelming but Bobby knows from hard-earned experience it would make Dean run for the hills right now.  If there was an instruction manual on how to care for Dean Winchester (which would make Bobby’s life so much easier), approach with caution and handle with extreme care would be written in big bold letters and underlined repeatedly.  When Dean starts to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and his broken open expression slides back behind the protective blank mask that he wears too often,  Bobby mentally kicks himself for just standing there gawping like an dumbass instead of dragging the boy indoors. 

"Get your ass in here kid," he says just a second too late as Dean staggers backwards shaking his head. 

"No, sorry, this is stupid.  I shouldn't have bothered you. I know you and Dad...well, Dad said we weren't welcome here anymore but I thought maybe I could still...you know what, it doesn’t matter.  I’ll just hit the road. Sorry Bobby," just as Dean is on the verge of pivoting and bolting for the car, Bobby cuts off his rambling and his escape plan by reaching out and grabbing hold of his arm.

"Don't be an idjit Dean. Whatever happens between your Daddy and me ain’t got nothing to do with you; you're always welcome in my home. I'd hope you'd damn well know that by now."

Dean still looks unsure, eyes flicking rapidly between Bobby and the impala and even buried under a thick layer of leather Bobby can feel Dean's muscles flex ready to yank free of Bobby's grip.

"Don't even think about it boy," Bobby regrets that his growl has taken on the tone of a pissed John Winchester but sometimes it's the only way to get Dean to listen. 

"Either haul your ass inside the house right now or I'll drag you in by the scruff of your scrawny neck and tan your hide black and blue."

For a second  Bobby feels Dean go rigid and he thinks he's blown it, that Dean's going to balk and take off but suddenly like his strings have been severed, Dean goes lax under his grip, meets his eyes and allows a small smile to tug at his lips. "Well hell Bobby, you smooth talking devil, I was just waiting on you asking nice."

Releasing Dean's arm now he's sure the boy's not going to turn tail and run, Bobby cuffs him over the head and shoves him towards the open door. "I don't think you want to be a smartass boy not unless you're keen on being too sore to sit down all week."

Bobby herds Dean through to his kitchen where he pushes him down into a chair and hands him a bottle of water, which Dean eyes with distaste. 

"Not one word Dean, just drink the damn water. You look like you've had enough booze lately to pickle your liver good. You're gonna sit there and have a decent meal then we're gonna get you cleaned up, then we're going to bed."

With nothing more than a wrinkled nose, Dean drops his eyes and starts to sip at the water. Bobby busies himself at the stove, reheating the chilli he'd had himself earlier and allows a comfortable silence to fill the room.  Sometimes he wonders how they got here, him and Dean - to this place, this odd relationship that started out so innocently.  Bobby only saw snapshots of Dean's childhood.  He saw him grow, in odd days and infrequent random weeks, from a quietly determined little boy to a confused young man still stubbornly protective of the family that have well and truly fucked him up and fucked him over.  Not too long ago, he had been so full of doubt that he was doing the right thing by Dean he'd turned him away; told him that he couldn't do it, couldn't take advantage of him like some dirty old man. Two days later, he received a phone call from Brookings County Hospital informing him that his nephew had just regained consciousness and was asking for him. He’d been attacked and beaten at a truck stop.  Since that day, Bobby has smothered his doubts, shoved them deep down and concentrated on being the one person that Dean can always turn to for help.

Placing a bowl of chilli and a hunk of bread on the table in front of Dean, Bobby sits alongside him and asks, "want to tell me what happened to your face?"

"Not really," Dean replies around a mouthful of bread. 

Bobby stares at him unblinking, knowing that he'll cave sooner or later. Turns out to be sooner.

"Got in a fight with some asshole in a bar. It’s no big deal,” he shrugs. “I was just trying to relax and burn off some steam but he had some huge ass friends backing him up, looked like a bunch of fucking linebackers."

"Dammit Dean! Why didn't you just come here if you needed somewhere to let off steam?"

"Jesus Bobby, I can't come running here botherin you every time my head gets a little screwed up, you've got better things to do with your time than look after a loser like me."

Bobby thumps his fist down on the table, making the cheap china rattle and Dean jumps a clear inch off his chair. He grabs hold of Dean's jaw forcing the boy to look him dead in the eye. "Don't talk about yourself like that, not ever. Do you hear me Dean?"

Dean blinks wide eyed in shock but nods his head as much as he can in acknowledgement.

Not easing up his hold on the boy, Bobby continues, "The deal is you're careful out there and you look after yourself and when you need to, WHENEVER you need to, you come here and let me look after you. Christ Dean, you're important to me, having you here ain’t a chore. Hell kid did ya ever stop to think that I like having you around."

Bobby abruptly lets go of Dean's face and gives his unbruised cheek a gentle pat. "Finish up your food, I'm gonna run you a bath. When you're done put your dishes in the sink and come up to the bathroom."

 

Bobby has a huge old bathtub and dilapidated antique plumbing to match so the tub has only just about finished filling by the time Dean appears.

"Strip." Bobby directs and Dean obeys with just a slight blush colouring his pale skin.

Bobby has to chew the inside of his mouth to stop himself from cursing up a storm when Dean stands naked and shivering in the cold bathroom in front of him. He can practically count the kid's ribs from here and as well as countless bruises and scratches there's a nasty looking new scar streaking down his chest.  Bobby had been planning on laying Dean across his knee and paddling his bare ass until he cried himself free of whatever tangle of problems was screwing with his head this time. Now, seeing the trail of damage scattered across his body, the thought of inflicting any more pain on the kid makes him want to throw up.  No problem, he has a few other tricks to get Dean there.

Bobby points at the toilet, wordlessly directing Dean to relieve himself then ushers him towards the tub and helps him in. Dean sits straight and rigid in the water, muscles bunched in tense knots. Bobby pushes his shoulders back until he's leaning against the cool slope of the tub so he at least looks as though he's attempting to relax then grabs the soap and a wash cloth, kneels by the tub and starts to meticulously clean him. Taking great care around his wounds old and new, Bobby gently washes Dean's face, patting the cloth tenderly over his bruised cheekbone before working his way slowly down his throat.  He traces the dripping cloth over the pronounced curve of the boy's collarbone and then eases it over the telltale rapid shuddering of his chest.  He avoids rubbing the rough cloth over the ugly healing scar; instead, he gently maps the path of it with his fingers while Dean watches him through thick lowered eyelashes.  He does brush the washcloth over Dean's nipples, circling them with the course material of the wet cloth until a deep flush spreads from the boy's chest, rising up over his face until even the tips of his ears are pink. Abandoning the cloth, he starts to play with Dean's sensitive nipples, pinching, pulling and scratching until they harden into beautiful tight red peaks.  Dean is squirming so much that he sends waves of water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub, soaking Bobby's jeans. 

"That's enough boy, lie still," Bobby scowls, giving the nipple he is currently tormenting a vicious tweak. 

Dean lets out a brief puff of annoyance but relaxes back into the heat of the water and tries his best to stay still. Retrieving the wet cloth, Bobby continues his journey down the fragile contours of Dean’s body, over the bony jut of his hips, down his inexplicably bowed legs. He spends time carefully cleaning every delicate bone of Dean's feet before dragging the cloth back up to where his hard cock is bouncing prettily in the water. Bobby works the cheap soap into a foamy lather in his hands and massages it over the boy’s balls. Dean is biting his teeth hard into his bottom lip, trying desperately to be good, to do as he's told and not move. Bobby rewards him by slipping his hand under his butt, brushing his thumb lightly over his taint, skimming back until he reaches the smooth dip into his hole.  He sinks just the very tip of his thumb into the tight clench of Dean's asshole then works his thumb in and out, pushing in a fraction further every time until he's in as far as the first knuckle. Dean is trying so hard to hold still but patience has never been one of his strengths and eventually he just can't help himself. He pushes down with a groan trying to force Bobby to thrust in deeper, harder. He whines in dismay when Bobby shoots him a disappointed glare and withdraws his thumb completely. 

Ignoring Dean and grabbing the bar of soap again, Bobby works up so much of a lather that the soap shoots through his wet fingers, skitters across the floor and disappears in the dark mysterious recess behind the toilet. Dean lets out a gleeful snicker then abruptly snaps his teeth together and a look of guilty embarrassment flits over his face. Rolling his eyes, Bobby plunges his hand into the cooling water and grabs Dean's cock in his fist. With a guttural moan, Dean’s eyes clench shut and his head thuds against the back of the tub. Bobby jacks him off torturously slowly with a feather light grip that has Dean trembling, fingernails digging into his thighs and teeth nearly drawing blood from his bottom lip.  He tries desperately to restrain himself from bucking up into Bobby's hand to chase more, more friction, more pressure, more speed, fuck more anything. Bobby slides his other hand back under Dean’s buttocks, searching out his hole again. He doesn't penetrate Dean this time, he swirls his finger around and around his tight little hole then taps on it, lightly at first then firmer and more insistently until he can imagine the hole fluttering open underneath his finger. While he plays with Dean's hole, he brushes his thumb over the sensitive head of Dean's cock and fists him in an infuriatingly leisurely rhythm that soon has Dean begging.

"Please Bobby...God...please, please, please. I need more Bobby, please."

Bobby can't deny that he loves to see Dean like this; all pretence and cocky facade gone just pure honest emotion and raw desire on show. He isn't going to cave in to Dean's pleas yet though. He isn't planning on going that easy on the boy no matter how much he'd love to, Dean need a bit more attention tonight.  Instead, he pulls the plug to drain the bath, stands up and pulls a mournful looking Dean out of the tub.  Dean stands on trembling  legs, his stiff cock an angry shade of red and Bobby has to avoid looking at his face because the pout he's wearing is completely ridiculous and reminds him enough of a preteen Dean to make him uncomfortable.  Bobby grabs a bath towel and pats him dry.  He carefully dries his face and neck first, works his way down his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine, tutting as his pats the towel over Dean's too prominent ribs, down over the white globes of his butt and the dip of his pelvis. He ends up crouching between Dean’s spread knees, wiping dry his feet and legs. He can hear Dean panting uneven breaths as he brushes the towel over the boy's tautly muscled thighs, his mouth close enough to Dean’s cock that the boy can probably feel him breathing.  He looks up at Dean as his mouth hovers over his cock, a drip of precome beads at the slit and Bobby can smell Dean's arousal. He’s so tempted to open his mouth, flick out his tongue and lick up the glistening pearl of precome instead he holds Dean's gaze, opens his mouth and says, 

"No!"

Dean’s hands clench into frustrated fists at his sides and his stomach ripples as a distraught whimper escapes his lips.

Bobby reaches onto the floor besides him, trying to locate the toy he placed there earlier then before Dean realizes what’s happening, he snaps the cock ring snugly around his cock and balls ensuring that Dean's orgasm is completely in his control.

"Bedroom," Bobby says, easing himself up from the floor on creaking knees and walking from the room, fully expecting Dean to follow him and yes as expected, when he walks into his bedroom Dean is right behind him.  Bobby directs the boy to lie on his back in the middle of the bed and he follows the order silently and efficiently, just like his daddy taught him to, although he's sure John Winchester never imagined that Bobby would take advantage of his well trained boy like this. Bobby tugs Dean's wrists up to the iron headboard where he attaches them to the handcuffs already hanging there, trapping Dean’s arms at opposing corners at the top of the bed. 

 

Dean can't imagine being in this situation with anyone else. Can't imagine wanting to be in this situation with anyone else. He's completely vulnerable; shackled to the bed butt naked, cock hard and leaking, heavy balls full and aching. Bobby could do anything now. He could fuck Dean dry. He could cut him, flog him, choke him.  He could walk away and leave him. The trust Dean places in Bobby is absolute. He loves his family more than is probably sane but Bobby is the one person in the world he trusts without question. 

Bobby's watching him from the foot of the bed, proprietarily scrutinising every inch of him. Dean can feel when Bobby's attention focuses on his trapped dick and it causes an involuntary shudder to ricochet up his spine and his face to burn red-hot. He closes his eyes and twists his head, burying his face in a pillow, reverting to the childish notion that if he can't see Bobby then Bobby can't see him. 

"Dean," Bobby's voice rumbles, "open your eyes and look at me."

Swallowing hard, battling his instinct to stay hidden, Dean forces open his eyes and turns his head back towards Bobby.

Bobby smiles at him, "Good boy, Dean, good boy," then in the blink of an eye he steps round the bed and sinks his mouth straight down Dean's dick until his beard is brushing against the delicate skin of his balls and Dean damn near chokes on his own tongue.  Bobby sucks his cock and balls, spreads his legs wide across the bed and laves his ass with his tongue. He nips at the hard little peaks of his nipples; he kisses, licks, bites and sucks his way over Dean's entire body. He slicks up a single digit, spits on Dean's hole and slides his finger straight in. Finding his prostate with deadly accuracy, he rubs and pets the sensitive spot until precome is squeezing its way from the head of Dean's throbbing cock.  He teases and torments Dean for what feels like hours until all Dean knows is the fierce intense need to come. At last, the chaos and noise inside of his head are gone.  All the disappointment, the fear, the jealousy and anger, all the doubts, the despair and the loneliness are gone. He's writhing on the bed, sweat-soaked and desperate, moaning and begging unintelligibly till his voice is a hoarse dry rasp. Every single touch on his body sends sparks of electricity singing through every nerve ending and he's not even sure how he's still breathing. When eventually the tight clasp around his cock vanishes, his whole body seizes and bucks off the bed and hot streams of ropey come shoot all over his stomach.  A rough yell of agonising ecstasy is dragged from his raw throat and then it’s lights out.

 

Looking after Dean is a whole lot easier when the boy is unconscious, Bobby thinks as he wipes him down with a warm cloth. It doesn't take long at all to wash away the come and sweat that coat his body. Unlocking the cuffs from around Dean's wrists, he rubs his hands to ensure that the blood is flowing properly into his fingers then tucks Dean under the warm blankets. He strips down to his underwear, steadfastly ignoring the hard-on that is tenting his boxers and climbs under the covers, pulling Dean into his arms in a way that would have Dean complaining loudly if he wasn't sound asleep.  Bobby really has no idea if the nights he spends with Dean like this are helping him or screwing him up even more, but there’s no way in hell that he’s going to abandon the boy like his so-called family have.  While there’s still breath in his body he’s going to be there for Dean and after that, well he’s pretty sure he’s going to hell for fucking his friend’s son.  Looking at the peaceful face of the gently snoring boy tucked into his side, he thinks it’s worth it.


End file.
